


Like Crystal

by von_gelmini



Series: Mob AUs [1]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: A Whole Lot of Characters Invented to Dress the Scenery, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Noir, Anal Sex, Blink and you'll miss him Steve Rogers, Dark Peter Parker, Dark Tony Stark, Irish Steve Rogers, Italian Mafia, Italian Tony Stark, M/M, More Like Situational Typical Homophobia, Oral Sex, Period-Typical Homophobia, Tony is in the mob but is not a boss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-27 11:30:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 15,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20407018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/von_gelmini/pseuds/von_gelmini
Summary: Tony’s playing it hard but Peter is countering, enjoying the game as much as he is. They’re roles straight out of an old black and white movie. He’s trying not to be impressed with how well the kid knows the part.





	1. A cheesy one-liner

“What’s a pretty thing like you doin’ in a bar like this?”

It's a cheesy one-liner. The boy laughs, high and bright, but it ends on a rough note. Like the sound of crystal — hitting a wall.

“Just sayin’ darling, the bar for you is downtown, Giovanni’s. Lots of action for a kid as cute as you.”

“Who says I’m looking for that kind of ‘action’?” He hangs innuendo on the last word. “Or that I’m looking for it with the kind of guys at Giovanni’s?”

“What kinda guy you lookin’ for it with?” The man smiles, eyes crinkling.

“Maybe a guy like you…,” the kid pauses, “but not you.” The kid shuts the man down with a sarcastic smile. “Maybe I’m just here waiting for a meeting.”

“A date? Who with? I know all the guys ‘round here.”

“A _ meeting _.” Emphasis on the word.

“Other than having a fine time, and you do look like you’d be a _ fine _ time, why would a guy from here want a meeting with you?”

“You’d have to ask him.” The kid nods his head towards the door. A black haired guy with dark olive skin walks in. He carries himself with the easy confidence of a guy at _ least _two ranks above the flirt. Made, certainly. An underboss, probably. Not belonging in a Campano bar, obviously.

The flirt looks dejected, but the kid can tell it’s a fake. He walks away to the table in the far corner where his friends are sitting. He sits _ in _that corner, back to both walls at the same time. His friends jibe about the kid’s rejection.

A new guy walks in and almost everyone seems to bristle. He’s blond, blue eyed, and built like a brick shithouse. He’s also the Irish mob’s best hitter. The kind of guy who shouldn’t be within five miles of this place. Hands move towards pockets, belts, holsters. With a lot of nerve, the Irish guy ignores all that and actually sits his ass down at the bar on one side of the kid. The probable underboss sits on the other.

“What the fuck?” One of the flirt’s friends says, loud enough to be heard, but low enough not to be offensive.

The kid, the Irish, and the underboss talk. Their talk is quiet. No one can overhear and the bartender’s had the wisdom to move to the far end of the bar, concentrating on wiping the dirt off a clean glass. It’s a brief conversation, three minutes maybe less, before the Irish gets up. His mouth quirks into something like a smirk in the direction of the cheesy flirt in the corner. Nothing disrespectful — just barely — before he’s out the door.

The underboss slides a long narrow paper across the bar to the kid, who glances at the paper then pushes it back. “Not necessary.” It isn’t loud, but the flirt has his ear tuned to the kid’s voice. Leaning a scant bit closer, the underboss asks the kid something, not wanting to be overheard. The kid couldn’t give a shit who overhears him. “Wednesday.” 

The underboss moves to a table in the center back of the room. One with two high level guys already at it. Chairs slide and the men rearrange themselves. Their conversation is light, inconsequential, and not concealed. 

The would-be pick up artist waits a minute for things in the bar to settle. It doesn’t look like the kid’s getting ready to leave, since he ordered another drink, something pink and fruity — in both meanings of the word.

“Wednesday, huh?” the flirt asks, leaning on the bar beside the kid. He sits on the barstool that the underboss sat on. The other stool had Irish ass on it. Nobody in this bar is going to sit on _ that _before it’s cleaned. Obviously cleaned. Turning to face the kid, his posture is easy and his legs fall open.

Nonchalance is met with the same. “Hmm.” The kid sips his drink through a long straw. He looks over the rim of the glass, giving the guy a slow once-over. The way the man’s legs spread, it’s impossible not to notice the way his pants are filled out.

“So that means Tuesday’s free?”

The kid doesn’t quite laugh, but it’s close. Not close enough. “Don’t know about Tuesday. But tonight’s free.”

“Huh. Funny. Tonight’s just opened up for me.”

“I thought you and your boys had a thing tonight.”

“Doll, the day I put a _ thing _ ahead of you is the day I musta died.”

The kid laughs brightly again. The man beside him thinks he won’t ever get enough of that sound. 

Only slightly limp wristed, the kid holds his hand out, high, to be shaken. His eyes widen when the man kisses it instead. “Oh.” It’s barely a breath and holds the first genuine reaction he’s had all night. “My name’s Peter.” He takes his hand back once it’s released and not before.

“Tony.” The name rolls off the man’s tongue like it should be known.

Peter purses his lips, unimpressed. “Tony Tee? Slim Tony? Tony Gavo?...”

“Tony Stark.”

Peter’s smile is coy. He reaches up to Tony’s face and lets his thumb trace the perfectly trimmed line of his goatee before he takes it away. “I should have recognized…” 

Tony chuckles. “You’re new ‘round here. I’ll let it slide. For someone as pretty as you, I’d let a lot of things _ slide _.” He gets the bartender’s attention with a move so slight, Peter almost misses it. The bartender comes. Tony give a nod towards Peter and in no time there’s another pink drink set next to the first, which is still more than half full.

Peter pushes the first drink aside and very pointedly picks up the one Tony ordered for him. He chases the straw with his tongue before he catches it. Another once-over, but Peter’s eyes linger a little too long on what Tony’s displaying. “I know I’m not the kind you take home. Fortunately I’ve got a room not far.”

Tony’s playing it hard but Peter is countering, enjoying the game as much as he is. They’re roles straight out of an old black and white movie. He’s trying not to be impressed with how well the kid knows the part.

Peter puts his hand over Tony’s on the bar. He lowers his eyes. He holds them there before raising them, sparkling. “If you don’t think I know _ exactly _ who you are…” Peter laughs, maddingly just as bright as his first. He turns his body more directly to Tony, sliding his closed legs between Tony’s open ones then rubs his knee against the inside of the man’s thigh. “I’ve been waiting for you since _ forever _.”

Tony’s laugh is loud, obvious. “What’s forever to you, kid? Are you even old enough to be drinking in this place?”

Peter quirks a shrug. “Forever’s long enough to know about a lot of things. In this place and out of it.”

This is a bad idea, runs through Tony’s mind. He’s used to overwhelming boys like Peter long before this stage in the game. The kid’s gonna be a challenge and Tony likes them easy. But when it comes to pretty boys, Tony’s never has been careful. 

Something is barely overheard from the table with Tony’s friends. Joking looks and knowing grins are sent in the couple’s direction. 

“Your playboy reputation might not take well to coming home with me,” Peter laughs, trailing his fingertips over the sleeve of Tony’s jacket. 

The idea that the kid thinks he’d be so easily intimidated makes him foolish. Tony takes Peter’s hand in his and stands. “Like I give a fuck,” he says loudly, the heat of irritation in his voice. Not caring who, at any table, is watching him, he turns to the door, practically dragging Peter behind him.


	2. You shoulda known

Outside, where _ things _ can be _ seen _, Peter slides his hand around Tony’s waist. He doesn’t pull away like he should. There’s no disapproving look to put the kid in his place. He drapes his arm over Peter’s shoulders, pulling the boy closer. “So where’s your place?” 

“Two blocks up. Above Fiorello’s. You know it?”

“Yeah.” Tony laughs. “I’m just not used to seeing someone like you living in a dump like that, princess.”

“What? Princesses deserve a palace?” Peter says, his lips twitch up, his eyes tease. “They only get that when they get their prince.”

Bad idea. Bad idea. Bad idea. Bad id… oh fuck it. They’re at the narrow door that leads up to the rooms above the restaurant and Tony’s letting Peter lead him up the steep stairs.

It’s a dingy little room with a bare bulb, a sink, and only a light well for a window. But it has a wrought iron double bed in the corner. Peter shuts the door. Tony spins him around and presses his back against it, arms on either side of the boy, pinning him, holding him in place with a deep, hot kiss.

He feels Peter’s startled jump turn into weak knees and a body that yields to his strength. He slips an arm behind the boy, around his waist, and holds Peter up, still kissing him. When he stops, Peter breathes out a small moan. His lips are wet and pink, turning redder for having been kissed. Tony can’t pull his eyes away as he watches them darken. 

He grinds himself against the boy, making sure the kid can tell just how appreciative he is of him. Peter wraps his arms around Tony’s neck, a cool hand on warm skin, the other slides up into his thick hair. The kid winds his fingers through it and tugs. The corners of Tony’s lips curl up in a smile at the challenge. He leans down and puts his mouth on Peter’s neck. He nibbles, listening to the boy’s breath catch. He bites and there’s another moan. He sucks and the boy tries to pull away. Tony’s hand comes up from the kid’s waist and wraps around the other side of Peter’s neck, holding him there while he sucks a deep, dark bruise.

“You shoulda known you’d be mine.” The words move across the bruise.

“Yes, Anthony.” Breathy and rising. 

No one calls Tony Anthony. He’s laid guys out for thinking about it. Pretty boys, even _ very _pretty boys, know better. Instead of responding with anger, Tony groans, pressing the length of his body closer to Peter, partly to keep his own knees from going weak. He could get addicted to hearing the boy calling him that name. It’s a reaction he can’t fathom. Doesn’t even want to try. 

He drops his hands to Peter’s waist and leads them toward the bed. They stop in the middle of the room under that bare bulb. Tony kisses Peter again. Sweet, he thinks. The kid tastes sweet. Not like he’s been sucking on candy. Tony licks into the boy’s mouth. It’s him. Actually fuckin’ sweet. Tony wants to take the kid to the bed, but he can’t get enough of kissing him right there under the harsh light and sharp shadows.

It takes a loud moan from Peter to break the spell. A spell. That’s it. The kid’s bewitched him. Why else does his common sense fly out the door? Why else has he walked _ a boy _ down the street, his arm pulling him close, protectively, possessively around his shoulders? It’s blatant, even for him. A fuckin’ princess with a spell.

“Don’t care,” Tony says in response to his thoughts. 

If Peter is puzzled by the words, it’s swept away by Tony pushing him back until his knees hit the bed. He spills back onto it, sprawling, legs parting, looking up at Tony with hungry honey eyes. His mouth falls open — lips almost lipstick red now from Tony’s claim on his mouth. His panting breaths ghost over them as he watches Tony’s small, efficient movements. Fingers loosening the belt. Button flicked open. Peter’s on his knees moving Tony’s hands away, taking the pull of the man’s zip in his delicate fingers, easing it down.

Knees. Weak. As the boy looks up at him, Tony’s breath stutters. It’s brief but Peter’s noticed before he regains control. “Mmm honey. That’s right.” He shakes his hips just enough to let his pants end up around his ankles. Hooks a thumb through the waistband of his shorts and they join his pants. A smirk as he watches the kid’s reaction. “C’mon baby. A boy like you can take it.”

Peter leans forward, slides his tongue over his lips eagerly. Forward some more and his tongue finds what it’s looking for. They both moan as Peter’s lips close around Tony’s cock. Peter looks up directly at the man as he slides his mouth down. Tony tangles fingers in his curly hair and pushes. Peter whimpers and takes more of him into his mouth, his tongue dancing as he does.

Tony yanks on Peter’s hair, pulling him off his cock. The boy’s mouth hangs open. “Aren’t you the talented little thing.” He pushes into the wet, willing O. Pushes until he’s pressing against the back of the boy mouth. “Go on. Show me what you’ve got.” His grip loosens and he holds his hand against the back of the kid’s head, giving Peter room to show off. 

And he does. Peter’s tongue never stops moving. He finds all the places that make Tony struggle to keep from reacting. He makes note of each struggle. He takes the man into the back of his mouth again then slides off, using his tongue on those struggling places. Repeat once, twice, and Peter _ makes _Tony react. He thinks, fuck… it should not feel so good to make this man respond. 

When Peter takes Tony _ all _ the way down without choking? Even a little? And holds him there? He knows Peter can feel it. The boy’s holding onto his thighs as his legs shudder and tense, but it’s not something he can control. Doesn’t matter how much Tony is _ always _ in control. 

The next time he slides so easily down Peter’s throat it’s like it was made to hold his cock. When the boy does it a third time, there’s no point in even pretending that he’s anything remotely like in control of this kid. He grips Peter’s shoulder not wanting to force the boy into what he’s doing so well on his own. 

The boy repeatedly and easily takes him down until Peter gives him a reprieve. Only it isn’t a reprieve. Sure, he’s not down the boy’s throat, but the kid’s _ tongue _ . He’s never been brought that close by a blow job that fast. Tony wants to take control again so that maybe he can come on Peter’s face. That would look amazing, he thinks. But the boy’s damn tongue won’t stop until his cock is throbbing and… Peter takes him back into his mouth as he comes. And the boy _ swallows. _

Tony’s certain he’s left about half of his soul in Peter’s mouth.

Peter starts to stand slowly, undoing each button of Tony’s shirt from the bottom on his way up. He leaves it open but pushed not off. He steps away and goes to the sink to rinse his mouth. He can hear Tony undressing. He watches in the mirror as Tony settles on the outside side of his bed, completely naked, his arm crooked back behind his head, watching Peter watching him. Peter smiles at the reflection. He’s feeling in control until he gives Tony a longer look as the man lies in his bed. He’s built, but not overly so, not like the Irish guy from the bar. No overcompensating. And why should he? What’s at rest between the man’s legs lying on a thick dark patch of hair has no need for overcompensation. Tony’s on his bed utterly at ease even though he’s naked. He’s there as if he belongs on that bed, as if he’s claimed everything in the room the way he claimed Peter’s neck. 

It’s Peter’s turn to shudder.


	3. It’s cute

“Doll, one of us is overdressed for the party.”

Peter undresses under Tony’s watchful stare. The man takes in every revealed inch of flesh and owns it. His shirt comes off and Tony makes a slight nod, appreciative and encouraging more. An hour ago, Peter would’ve sworn he was long beyond blushing, but he feels his face heat as he unbuttons his pants. He sucks his bottom lip in his mouth, biting back a moan from the heat of that stare. Pushing his pants and his briefs down, he’d like to just kick them off across the room, but everything happened so fast that his shoes are still on. He takes the opportunity to try to gain a little of the upper hand again. He turns, facing away from Tony, bends to untie his shoes, and stays bent as he takes them and his pants off.

“Yes. You’re very cute. But you know that.” Tony’s voice is a confident purr. “Now get that cute ass over here.”

Peter puts his hand on the edge of the mattress and slides himself across Tony’s body until he’s resting in the man’s arm between him and the wall. Tony wraps his arm tighter and pulls Peter into a kiss. Neither of them could tell you, if asked, who was ahead in this game.

Tony’s long kisses slowly get briefer. “What’s your story, princess.”

“Oh it’s boring. You’ve probably heard its like before.”

“Probably,” Tony admits. He runs the pad of his thumb across the boy’s mouth. “Maybe I just want to hear it again from these lips.”

“Both my parents died when I was young,” Peter begins. Tony hums. “I was raised by my aunt and uncle until my uncle was shot in a mugging.”

Tony frowns. “Fuckin’ muggers are a plague.” He pauses. “Your aunt raised you?”

“For awhile. She had a hard time after my uncle.” Peter shrugs. “Shit happened. I left home. More shit happened. I wound up here.”

“Lotta shit, kid.”

“Could be worse.”

Tony nods in agreement. “Seen worse. At least you aren’t selling it.”

“Never sank that low. I’ve been lucky that way.”

“Good.” The squeeze he gives Peter is possessive. “Never cared for those who do.”

Peter knows it’s way, _ way _ too soon, but things are happening fast. He plays to it. He rolls closer, drapes an arm across Tony and rests his head on the man’s chest. What’s there is noticeable by neither of them noticing it. Peter’s already getting good at reading the man because his focus is drawn. He’s always been a _ breadth _ of study person. There’s something to be said for _ depth _.

Tony threads his fingers through Peter’s hair. He’s expecting an opposite question to the one he asked about the kid’s life. It never comes. The boy’s smart enough not to want to be lied to. “So… I never did find out why you were in that bar.”

“A meeting. I told you.”

Tony chuckles and the boy can feel the rumble of it against him. He kisses the top of Peter’s head. “Don’t care about the other man you met. But what business do you have with the Irish?”

“A meeting.” Peter can feel the muscles of Tony’s arm tense. “Not that one, brokering another. Making an introduction.”

“And you can introduce the Éireannach?” Peter is surprised at Tony’s pronunciation and use of the term. 

Peter shrugs. “Caught between two worlds. Mom was Irish, dad was Italian. I made my decision early on to fall on my dad’s. That doesn’t mean I don’t still know the odd person on the other.”

“You know Rogers?” Dropping the Irish hitter’s name

Peter shakes his head. “Know someone who knows him. Knows him _ well _.”

Tony pulls Peter back by the shoulder so he can look at the kid’s face. “Well or _ well _?”

Peter smirked. “The second.”

“Shit,” Tony hissed. “And the Éireannach don’t give a fuck?”

“Nobody cares who the talent fucks if the talent’s talented enough.” Pause. “Isn’t that right?”

“Um hmm.” Tony rolls on his side and pulls the kid in. Chucking his finger under Peter’s chin he lifts him into another long kiss. He takes the boy’s hand and places it on his cock. “Slow.”

Peter smiles against Tony’s lips. He doesn’t circle the man’s cock with his hand yet, just presses over the top of it, sliding his hand down then up. “I think I’ll like taking my time with you.”

“Yeah?” Tony whispers back, licking the corner of Peter’s upturned mouth. “It’s cute.”

“What’s cute?”

“The way you think you’re the one controlling this.”

“Mmm. It’s cute.”

“What is?”

“The way you think I _ want _to be the one controlling this.” Peter feels Tony respond against his hand. He closes his fingers around him, moving his hand slowly. “I’m not easy.”

“Kid, you’re gonna be work,” Tony says hotly before claiming Peter’s mouth in a thoroughly filthy kiss

Tony’s cock responds to Peter’s hand and to the kiss. Unfortunately Peter’s cock responds to the kiss as well. He’s been with enough of these guys to know that’s not always appreciated. He moves his hips away.

Tony reaches his hand down and grabs Peter’s hip, pulling him close. Pulling him closer. Until they’re touching. He loosens Peter’s fingers and closes them around them both. “I know I’m in bed with a boy,” he growls before resuming the kiss.

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck races through Peter’s mind. But what escapes is a moan. ‘Slow,’ he figures has been replaced by ‘more’. His hand tries to circle them both as best he can as he strokes. Peter’s average. Tony’s so more than that. He turns his hand so he’s giving the man more attention than he’s giving himself. Tony reaches his hand between them and makes up the difference in the circle. He presses his fingers over Peter’s and sets the pace.

“You got something?” Tony asks. His voice is thick.

“Top drawer.” Peter can barely answer coherently.

Tony twists to reach. Their bodies come apart during the move. Peter takes the opportunity to roll to the center of the bed and turn onto his stomach.


	4. So plainly revealed

Peter’s move rankles. Tony knows what most men like him in his world are like — weak, hiding, ashamed. His warm hand caresses the inside of Peter’s thigh. Then that hand grabs roughly, fingers digging into firm muscle. Pulling hard enough to flip the boy onto his back. There are no men like Tony. 

Peter is moved until all can do is let Tony move him. He stares up in surprise. Fear replaces surprise when he sees how fast the man’s expression becomes dangerously dark. 

Tony’s blink is only a fraction longer than normal. He doesn’t want to see what he saw cross the face of a boy he beds ever again. More importantly, he doesn’t want to see even a hint of it cross _ this _boy’s face. He applies the correction not to Peter, but to himself. 

“I said_ , _ I know I’m in bed with a boy.” Said softly, to remind Tony that he’s better than _ that _ . Said firmly, to remind Peter that he’s better than _ them _. He runs his hand up the inside of the kid’s thigh, caressing again. If Tony does have any shame, it’s in knowing there will be a set of dark spots there come morning. That, he keeps entirely to himself.

Peter watches Tony’s ire be thoroughly brought under the man’s command. Not hidden to get what he wants in the moment only to reemerge later. But completely dissipated in the literal blink of an eye. Tony has power over people. He knew that. But power over _ himself _? He had no idea.

Peter surprises him. There’s no fear, no apprehension, not even the barest hint of hyperalertness, which would be a sensible thing for a boy in his position with a man of Tony’s reputation. Peter’s response is loss of control in opposition to Tony’s gain of control. The boy’s body reacts and he spreads his legs. His features soften and his eyes close in the face of what a moment ago was danger. What Tony hears is a soft moan of genuine acquiescence. “Yes Anthony.” 

The moment passes but what happened isn’t lost on either of them. Forgotten? Never. To be further spoken of? They wouldn’t let themselves be so plainly revealed.

Tony settles between Peter’s legs. When he sees the boy’s focus return and their eyes meet, he smirks like the cat who ate the cream. “Tell me, Peter? Have you been fucked a lot? I’m not calling you a slut,” he reassures. “I want to know how much work you need first so I don’t hurt you.”

“Enough,” Peter says. He’s never had anyone ask, much less take an interest in such a thing.

“Um hmm. So… not enough.” Tony squeezes a stripe of lube down the three fingers of his hand, working it over them until they’re shiny. He positions himself closer between his legs. “On my shoulders, Petey.”

Peter drapes his legs on either side of Tony’s neck, pulling slightly until his hips are canted up. The man rubs his fingers along him, circling the tip of one around his opening. The man keeps circling, pressing a little more each time but never entering. 

Tony looks down and watches what his fingertip is doing to Peter. Feels his hole flutter against it. The boy’s slick. His finger’s slick. It slides easily in.

“Oh…” There’s a note of surprise in Peter’s moan as he realizes he’s been parted without even the slightest twinge of discomfort.

“That’s it baby.” Tony moves his finger in and out, feeling the boy ease around him. He can tell from Peter’s reaction that his voice is a thing for the kid. He uses it to his advantage. “I’m not into it if it hurts you. Not my thing.” He slips a second finger in before he’s finished talking. It’s taken as easily as the first.

Peter is deliciously responsive. Tony’s eyes fix on the boy’s face then move slowly down his body until he’s looking at the kid’s cock. There’s already a bead of precome on the tip. He widens the gap between his two fingers and twists his wrist, spreading the boy. “You ever been told how gorgeous you are, honey?”

“Not with my clothes off,” Peter admits truthfully.

Tony tsks. “Fuckin’ shame nobody’s appreciated you before.” His third finger slips in under the second. “Somebody should be treating you right.” He flattens his fingers out, spreading him wider. 

Peter grinds his hips down, taking more of Tony’s fingers in. “Like you?” he asks teasing.

Tony slicks his cock with his other hand as he spreads his fingers. “Baby, you told me you weren’t lookin’ for action with me.” He starts moving his three fingers, leaning forward so his cock can press just below them.

“Maybe I fuckin’ lied.”

Tony hardly recognizes his laugh. It’s nearly as bright as the boy’s own. Sliding his fingers out, he replaces them with the head of his cock and stops. 

“Anthony…” Peter’s hand flails hoping to find Tony’s hip so he can pull him in more.

“Yes doll?” He’s hoping the kid’s desperation hides how easily he’s undone by hearing his name on Peter’s lips. He lets the boy’s hand find purchase but Tony’s stronger and stays put.

“Please?” Peter draws the word out to an impossible number of syllables.

“Please what?” Tony asks. He gives an inch more. “This what you want, Petey?”

Peter’s hips can’t stay still. He’s clenching and writhing, but even like this he knows better than to push down and take what he wants. “Yessss. Need it.”

“Need _ it _ baby? Or need _ me _.”

“You, Anthony, you!”

Tony pushes in all the way and bends over Peter’s body, kissing him. “You got me, baby.” He whispers the words over the boy’s lips, holding them there, before kneeling back and resting on his heels. He grabs Peter’s hips, pulling the boy into his lap. He lets the kid’s legs fall from his shoulders. “Pull them back, baby. Open and I’ll give you what you need.”

Peter pulls his legs back. Pulls them back some more. Tony has to kneel up to stay in him. Then, showing off, Peter pulls his legs back until his knees are on the mattress on either side of him. He hooks his elbows over his calves to hold his legs in place. His hips are angled up almost aiming at the ceiling.

Tony leans forward and buries himself as deep as he’s ever been inside a boy before. He sucks in a breath between his teeth. “Fuck Petey,” he groans. He grinds his hips in a slow circle. “Gymnastics?” His voice isn’t a gasp. It isn’t.

“Ballet.” His voice isn’t a moan. It isn’t.


	5. A suitcase and a backpack

Tony draws back until when he looks down he can see Peter’s rim grasp around his shaft just below the head. “Fuck,  _ that’s  _ a view,” he breathes out appreciatively. His lips twitch into a smile. “I’m gonna fuck you into next week.” He thrusts hard until he’s buried again, forcing a gasp out of the boy. Tony takes over from the boy’s elbows to holding Peter’s legs back, pinning them to the mattress with his hands. Bent over the boy, he fucks fiercely into him.

Peter almost feels sorry for his neighbors. Almost. The bedsprings complain. The headboard knocks against the wall. His whimpers break loud. Our hips will be bruised, he thinks before the ability to think leaves him. It’s wild and hard and fast. Tony’s so thick he’s stretched wide. As the man thrusts, his cock rubs along his prostate giving a constant thrum of pleasure. It isn’t long before Peter’s calling out, high pitched and loud, “Anthony, Anthony, Anthony,” as if repeating the litany. 

“That’s my baby,” Tony growls.

Peter’s cock pulses. At that angle, he’s spraying his chest and face with come. It takes only a little more before Tony’s arching back, his hands dragging up from Peter’s calves to thighs to the globes of the boy’s ass. “Fuck!” Tony cries out. A deep shudder runs through him at the end of which the name’s a breath across his lips. “Petey.”

There’s loud thumping on the wall beside the bed. It sounds like it’s been going on awhile. Tony pounds back once, hard. “Shut the fuck up, I’m fucking my boyfriend.”

Peter’s laugh turns into an unexpected wince as he tries to lower his legs.

Tony notices. “Shit. Didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“It’s okay.”

Tony sits at an angle to Peter, leaning his back against the wall, gently pulling the boy’s legs across his lap. His hands massage softly, beginning at the back of the boy’s thighs and working down to his calves, before starting again, a little firmer. After a few times he feels the muscles ease beneath his fingers. “Told you. I don’t like hurting you.” He looks worried, but then breaks out into a grin, his eyes crinkling with deep lines. “But fuck me, baby. I gotta keep you in ballet lessons.”

Peter giggles.

“Do that again.”

“Anthony,” Peter complains, giggling again at being asked to.

“Baby, that’s a great sound, especially when you’re covered in your own come and mine’s dripping outta your ass.

Peter’s nose scrunches. “You like me messy?” 

“When it’s my mess, yeah.” Tony pauses, stroking the top of Peter’s thigh. “Better, baby?”

“Mmm,” he says, nodding. Peter runs his fingers down Tony’s bicep. They slide easily over the sweat the man worked up fucking him.

“Where’s your bathroom?” Tony asks.

“Down the hall, take a left, end of that hall. Showers on one side, toilets on the other. Shared with everybody on this floor. Same again up the back stairs if these are all occupied.”

“Hell no. Baby, I’ve gotta get you out of here.” Tony pats Peter’s legs and the boy moves them. He goes to run the water at the sink, having to wait a long time before it turns even a little lukewarm and goes no hotter. He tsks but wets the washrag. He returns to Peter, who reaches his hand out for it. Tony swats the hand away, sits on the edge of the bed and begins cleaning the boy himself. He has to make another trip to the sink. “Baby, you  _ are  _ a mess,” he says chuckling as he rinses the cloth.

“Yeah? Who got me that way Anthony?”

“Mmm. Seem to remember it being me.” Tony sits back down on the bed and finishes cleaning Peter up, including between his legs. He wipes his own cock and tosses the cloth, with perfect aim, back into the sink. “What ya got here you wanna take with you?”

“Huh?”

“Now I know you can hear better than that.” Tony pulls on his shorts and his pants. He zips and buttons them, then looks down to fasten his belt.

“Not much. A suitcase and a backpack’s what I moved in with. A suitcase and a backpack’s what I have now.”

Tony shrugs into his shirt. “I got a little place over on Central that I stay in when it’s too late to drive home.”

Peter laughs. “You mean a place you keep your girlfriends in.”

“Never had any girlfriends in there.”

“Boyfriends then.”

“Had a few of them. But the place really is for me to crash at. Pepper doesn’t like it when I come in late and wake the kid. I’m here most nights.”

“Really,” Peter says, drawing out the word.

Tony tosses Peter’s shirt at him. “Yes, really. Fuck, you can be a brat when you wanna.” Peter laughs. Just like at the bar, the sound nearly takes Tony’s breath away. “If you’re coming with me, you gotta  _ at least _ wear clothes until we get to my car.”

“After?” Peter says getting dressed.

“I don’t care but the traffic cameras might.” Tony shrugs. “Give all those boys watching them something to see.”

Peter pulls the shirt over his head. “So…” He lets the word trail until he’s certain he has Tony’s attention. “You don’t mind other men looking at me, Anthony?” Tony’s eyes turn dark. Knowing it's not directed at him but at protecting him? Yeah, that’s a rush. 

Tony hooks his arm around Peter’s waist, pulling him close, letting the kid feel his possessiveness. “Get your pants on and keep them on. Nobody gets to see this,” he grabs Peter’s ass, “but me.”

“I think I like that.” Peter leans up and kisses Tony on the cheek before he starts putting his things into a suitcase and a backpack.

Tony never asks and Peter never answers, but the suitcase and the backpack wind up in the trunk of Tony’s car and Peter winds up in that little place over on Central.


	6. The rules

It’s a nice one bedroom. Maybe two, depending on what’s behind door number three. The place is old but the furniture is new and very modern, yet comfortable. 

“This kitchen needs a lot of work.” Peter frowns as he steps into the narrow room. 

Tony shrugs. “I eat out a lot.”

“You need someone to take care of you.”

“You volunteering, baby?”

“Mmm. Maybe. Might make you get me a maid,” he teases.

Tony swats him on the ass.

“Okay yes, I’m volunteering. You’re hopeless, Anthony. Don’t know how you ever made it to… what… fifty…?” 

“Watch it kid. Forty-five. I can dump your ass back on the street,”

Grinning, Peter swats at Tony’s arm. “You’d  _ die  _ without this ass.”

“There are other asses.”

“That can do this?” Peter drops down into a full split and hooks one of his ankles behind his neck.

“Fuck,” Tony breathes out.

Peter uncurls, stands, and gives Tony a quick kiss. “Like I said.” He laughs. He picks up his things, heading toward the hall. “Which is the bedroom?”

“In there,” Tony motions to a closed door on the left. “I gotta make a call, then I’ll join you.” He watches Peter — and that ass — walk away. Okay maybe he wouldn’t  _ die _ without it, but he’d miss it a  _ whole  _ lot. He chuckles. “Just for sleep, baby. You wore me out.”

Peter leaves the door open a crack and quickly puts his things in the two empty drawers he finds. Tony’s still on the phone when he’s finished. A little eavesdropping and he can tell the man’s talking to no one more important than one of his friends from the corner table. He undresses and crawls naked into Tony’s bed, taking the side closer to the wall. 

Peter knows the rules. Walk on the inside of the street. Sleep on the inside of the bed. Sit sideways to the door because Tony will be sitting with his back to the wall. Never, or very rarely, and only in certain places, initiate public displays of affection. Make yourself scarce, but not too scarce, when ‘the men’ are talking. Be decorative but never flirty and definitely never slutty. Be careful who you talk to and how. Don’t be difficult when he has to spend time with the wife and kids. Never threaten to go to the wife and tell no matter how pissed off you are at him. And never,  _ ever  _ cheat on him. He owns you until he’s done with you. Tony’s world is full of rules. Dozens more. All unspoken. Even though these ones are put in place for women, Peter’s learned them. With the role he’s in, he knows he’s considered one of them.

Men like Tony are unheard of. Even in this modern day and age there’s a wide, and often violent, streak of homophobia that runs through his world. For Tony, known to fuck both women and men, and unwilling to hide it, it’s been harder coming up. Campano on both sides, with his skill and accomplishments? Being forty-five without being made is without precedent. If only he’d give up the boys, or at least be discreet and lie about it, he could be much further ahead by now. But Tony doesn’t apply the world’s rules to himself. Not even his world’s rules. Peter admires that.

He stands in the doorway smiling at seeing Peter in his bed. The kid looks good there. Tony’s fucked around a lot, a  _ lot _ , but hardly ever brought anyone in. The boy smiles back at him, folding down the covers inviting him to get into his own bed, showing off that pale skin stretched over a perfect chest and abs. Tony pushes aside any chorus in his head saying it’s too soon. You don’t know him. This is dangerous. Instead he’s out of his clothes and joining the boy. He wraps his arm under Peter’s shoulders and pulls him in, tucking the boy’s head under his chin and resting him on his chest. Certain things about  _ that  _ are left unspoken again.

“You good?” Tony asks. About what? About all of it, he guesses.

“Mmm. Yes Anthony.” Peter presses a light kiss to the square inch of skin beneath his lips, wandering no further. “Very good.”

Tony wakes well rested in the morning, finding it a little bit unbelievable that he was able to sleep with a virtual stranger in his bed, in his home, in his life. He looks down at Peter, still sleeping. The kid’s laugh. If he didn’t have that damn laugh. If he hadn’t become addicted to the way the kid says his name. The name that no one calls him. He knows that there are a million reasons why this is a bad idea. Not the least of which is that the kid’s half Irish. He brushes those messy curls away from Peter’s face softly, hoping not to wake him yet, wanting to watch that face just a little while longer. After a few more minutes playing with the boy’s hair — he can’t keep his fingers away — Peter opens his eyes, looks up at him, smiling sleepily. After one night, Tony knows he’s lost.

“G’morning.”

“Good morning, baby.” Tony kisses his forehead. “Gotta work today.” Peter play-pouts and Tony laughs as he gets out of the bed, heading for the bathroom.

Peter waits until he hears the shower running before following to use the toilet.

“You flush and they won’t even find your body,” Tony says from behind the shower curtain.

Peter laughs but doesn’t flush.

Tony returns fully dressed and finds Peter wearing a very tight perfectly fitted pair of briefs, bent over with his head in the refrigerator.

“You don’t even have an egg in this refrigerator, Tony. And I’m terrified of opening the things that you do.” Peter stands and puts his hands on his hips, completely oblivious to being nearly naked. 

Ah. It’s Anthony when he’s happy with you, Tony when he’s not. He shouldn’t be craving getting rid of every ‘Tony’ that passes the boy’s lips. He pulls a couple of hundreds from his money clip and sets them on the counter. “Go to Gattuso’s. Tell them it’s for Tony Stark.” The kid slips them into the waistband of his briefs like he’s a stripper. Was he? Tony frowns. He said he didn’t sell his ass, but not all strippers do.

Peter rushes over, wrapping his arms around Tony’s neck, kissing him lightly on the lips. “Why’d I make you frown?” 

Tony should lie. He knows he should. He reaches down to the boy’s waistband and plucks it. “This.” Peter looks puzzled. “Have you ever stripped?”

Peter laughs, high and bright. “No Anthony. But I have seen a movie or two in my life.” He pauses. “I’m sorry it upset you. I won’t do it again. I don’t want you thinking of me like that.” He takes the bills out of his briefs and sets them back on the counter.

“That’s good, baby.” Tony kisses Peter deeply, then checks his watch. “I should be done with this by four. Meet me at the bar?”

“Okay.” He pauses. “Umm?”

“Yes?”

“How do I get back into your apartment when I’ve gotten the groceries?”

Tony considers the situation. He should have one of his crew watch the place. Unfortunately the work is going to keep them all busy. “Latch but don’t lock the door. Make the trip short, just for groceries. I’ll get you a key today.” Did he just offer to get the kid a key? A tight butt in a pair of the cutest aqua blue briefs will do that to a man. He’s seen guys fall for less with their girls. He gives Peter a quick kiss and is out the door.


	7. A full half hour

Peter waits a full half hour after Tony leaves before he starts searching the place. Tony has the reputation of being a very cautious man. He starts from the front window and works to the back of the apartment. He memorizes everything he moves before he does. Everything goes back exactly where it was taken from. The cash he finds easily, but it’s hidden in several places and it’s not all American. He leaves it alone. There’s a stash of unpawned jewelry. Also left alone and not sifted through. He doesn’t need to do that to know its value is high.

The locked cabinet in the third room, a half bedroom, smells of gun oil. Makes sense to keep the weapons locked up when you don’t know who you’re bringing home. He finds a few other hiding places of small, portable valuables. A knife is shoved under the edge of the mattress beneath Tony’s pillow. A nine millimeter and three magazines are in the nightstand. A trio of throwing knives are attached to the side of the nightstand facing where Tony sleeps. The hilts stick up just enough above the top of the mattress for easy grabbing. The throwing knives are a surprise. It’s an unusual skill in this world. Peter doesn’t touch any of the weapons. He’s sure Tony would notice if they’re so much as a quarter inch out of place. Plus, the bluing shows fingerprints to the eye. There are no prints on any of them. 

There are no credit cards anywhere. At the back of the top shelf in the bedroom closet, is an unlabeled box. Peter is very careful to lift each thing in front of it instead of dragging, so as not to disturb the dust pattern. In the box there are several passports and IDs. Birth certificates, baptism and confirmation papers, everything you could even remotely need to establish a new identity that would be untraceable. In the half bedroom, at Tony’s desk, there’s not a single piece of paper with handwriting on it. A recheck proves there’s not a single piece of paper with handwriting on it anywhere in the whole apartment. Not even the normal notes that a person might leave themselves. 

There’s a moderate flatscreen TV, but it’s not hooked up to cable or the internet. There’s a shelf of blue rays and DVDs. A player that does nothing but play, no internet, no cables except the plug. There’s an old fashioned looking landline phone. There are no computers, tablets, or cellphones — not even burners. There’s not one bit of hooked up electronics at all. Peter goes back to the front windows, frowning in thought. Upon closer look, they’re coated with a cross polarizing film to blur long lenses. There’s a device on each pane that looks like a home alarm. It isn’t. When Peter puts his hand on the glass, he can feel the vibration. Not enough to stop parabolic mics entirely but enough to make most of their recordings useless. He checks the smoke alarm. It’s not one. It’s a counter-surveillance device. There’s one in each room, including the bathroom and the hall. Peter holds up his smartphone. No signal by cell or wifi. He taps the wifi finder. 

He should be able to get  _ some _ kind of signal on his phone. Peter has a suspicion. It seems impossible. He goes to Tony’s desk and finds a glue stick in the office supply drawer. Next he moves the living room bookcase, carefully lifting and not sliding it, so it leaves no scratches on the floor. He slides his hand down the wallpaper covered wall. At the baseboard and a seam, he picks at the paper with a cute little keyfob on his chain that hides a penknife. The wallpaper is metallic coated on the underside. There’s foil sticking up from where it runs behind the baseboard, creating an overlap. Peter walks through the apartment again. Every wall, except where it’s tiled, is covered in wallpaper not paint. The ceilings are embossed metal to look like old tin ceilings. He’d lay money that behind the tiles in the bathroom and kitchen the wall is lined with foil. Same with under the floorboards. The apartment is as close to being a Faraday cage as you can get and still have windows. Peter doesn’t put it past the man to have a metalized membrane embedded into the glass of those. Back to the living room, he works a little of the glue under the wallpaper he’s pulled loose and moves the bookcase back into position. 

Tony is careful far beyond what someone of his rank should be. Peter is absolutely certain that the man is only so far and no further in the organization. He doubts that he warrants any high level of surveillance by law enforcement. Certainly not enough to need this kind of protection. Peter can absolutely imagine that this is the place he sleeps in most nights, rather than in his wife’s nice suburban house. He doubts that place is similarly equipped. Wives and kids expect a comfortable level of electronic life. He decides he’ll ditch his phone before he returns to the apartment after he gets the groceries. 

Tony Stark is not just a cautious man. He’s not just a paranoid man. He’s a  _ frighteningly  _ paranoid man. 

And yet, he invited Peter into his home. Told him to leave the door latched but unlocked. Promised to give him a key. Tony’s either confident he can’t be gotten to by people using the methods Peter’s using or he’s an idiot. Peter doubts he’s an idiot. He also doubts that a pretty face and a tight ass can’t get to him. He did. 

It doesn’t track but Peter hasn’t time to work it. It’s around one thirty. He heads down to Gattuso’s grocery store. On the way he breaks his phone into four pieces and drops two into trash cans, one into a mailbox, the last he kicks down a storm drain. 

The store’s not as small as most in the city. It has a good selection of pretty much everything necessary to support a large Italian neighborhood. He smiles prettily and nods to only to anyone who nods at him. Tony really doesn’t have anything but water and some kind of gross looking health drink in his fridge. Peter avoids most of the ‘Italian housewife’ foods because of that. It still leaves plenty and he fills up the small cart quickly. At the cashier, he tells who it is he’s shopping for. His bill is twenty percent lighter.

He’s gone a full half hour. He doesn’t want to leave Tony’s apartment empty for longer. By three thirty, the fridge is clean and everything’s been put away. Peter finds his best outfit to put on. He’s sure it isn’t going to be long before it’s considered dingy when Tony starts buying him clothes and spoiling him like the other guys do their girlfriends. There’s a certain level of competition in that regard. A dowdy bit of arm candy looks bad — not on the candy, but on the provider.


	8. A show…

Walking into the bar and seeing Tony, it’s not hard for Peter to become himself and not the person who spent the morning taking the man’s apartment apart. He walks over to the table, rests his hand briefly, lightly on Tony’s shoulder and smiles.

“Just a few minutes, doll.”

“All right.” Peter ensconces himself on yesterday’s barstool and orders his ridiculous pink drink. No one sits anywhere near Peter. He faces the bar, not the room. He’s not looking to pick someone up. He’s taken. Maybe it’s part of the role and he’s just very good at it. He doubts it. He actually feels happy to belong to Tony. He catches the man’s eye and smiles. 

It turns out to be more than ‘a few minutes’. Tony looks annoyed with two of the men at his table for the delay but he listens. His concentration breaks only to nod when an older man comes in. The nod isn’t returned. It’s a deliberate slight that everyone in the bar saw. 

Tony’s finally done with his business. Peter can’t overhear the words, but the man’s tone is more irritated than before when he leaves the corner table, yet he puts a friendly hand on the shoulder of each of his guys. They’re not the ones he’s pissed at. Tony slips his hand around Peter’s waist, pulling him closer, and kisses him on the cheek. 

“Sorry baby for making you wait.” It’s a show. 

Peter puts on one in return. “That’s okay Anthony,” he says with a smile. Not loudly, but loud enough to be heard. Everyone knows now what Peter calls Tony. He’s sure that there’s shock at hearing someone get away with it. He wishes he could observe the reaction but that would break the role he’s playing.

“I promised to get you this.” Tony sets a key on the bar top and slides it over to Peter. 

“Oh. I wasn’t expecting that.” Peter immediately, and obviously, threads the key onto his chain then puts it in his tight front pocket. “Thank you.”

“I don’t break promises. To anyone,” Tony adds pointedly. Then lighter, “I know you bought groceries, but would you be upset if I wanted to take you to dinner?” 

“I bought groceries, but I didn’t cook, so that’s perfect.”

“I guess when you lived above Fiorello’s you got sick of eating there.” He’s surprised that the kid picks up on what’s going on. He should be much more concerned at how well Peter plays. But their game last night was quick, skillful, and equally matched. 

“Nope.” Peter shrugs. “It was a bit out of my range. I went once and nearly spent a week’s pay.”

“Oh baby. If you think that place is fancy…”

Peter laughs. “You gonna spoil me?”

Tony could drown in that laugh. He should, but he can’t hide it. “Absolutely. Saturday we’ll go someplace nice.”

“Anthony, you don’t have to. I know…” Peter leaves it hanging.

“I’m not ashamed of you Petey. Nobody’s gonna object if a man wants to spoil his boyfriend.” Tony catches the eye of the older man who slighted him in the mirror. The look Tony gives is narrow, ice cold, and unrelenting. Yet it’s private enough that it’s undetectable by the rest of the bar. He’s giving the man more respect than he deserves. But not by much. Tony holds the look. The older man’s the one who backs down and looks away. Tony quietly snorts in derision. He turns back to Peter and smiles. “I most certainly will be taking you out Saturday night. But tonight, Fiorello’s. They have this amazing pesto spaghetti I got addicted to when I was an undergrad on a budget.”

Peter shows just the right amount of surprise. Someone in this world with a degree is almost unheard of, but that describes so much about Tony. “I went for a semester, but…” Peter sighs heavily. “I couldn’t do three jobs _ and _ study. Where’d you go?”

“MIT, undergrad and masters,” Tony states without bragging. “When I was home, I practically lived at Fiorello’s.” 

“MIT? Anthony!” He puts his hand flat on Tony’s chest. He leans in closer. “What in?”

“Electrical engineering. Masters in physics.”

“Fuck me,” Peter says on a heavy breath. He knows he’s not supposed to swear. 

Tony doesn’t take offense but chuckles. The kid’s _ good _. So he gives him the opportunity to show off something he suspects. “What were you looking to study.”

“I hadn’t decided. It’s really not that impressive,” Peter demures. 

“What were the choices?” Tony’s practically certain it was.

“Biomedical engineering or chemistry,” Peter says quietly, picking at the corner of a nail, pretending to be embarrassed by his intelligence. It’s not that he has it that’s embarrassing him, it’s how he’s failed it, unlike Tony. “I went to Midtown Tech. Was expected to go to college. Even had a partial scholarship. I graduated early, but, like I told you last night, shit happened.”

“Peter, that’s nothing to be ashamed of. Shit does happen. And some of us are good enough to graduate early. I was fifteen.” Okay, there might be a _ little _ bit of bragging.

“I can’t compete.” Pause. “Sixteen,” Peter adds, smiling beneath his eyes.

“Babydoll. Talk science to me and we might never get to dinner.”

”Anthony, you’d better take me to dinner. I’m starving and half drunk on half of one drink because I didn’t eat all day.”

Damn, the kid swerves fast. He’s impressed. Tony’s grin is wide, genuine. “Sweetheart, finish your whole drink and you’ll be whole drunk and you won’t care if I take you to dinner.”

He knows it’s breaking the rules but he also knows this is a performance. He grabs Tony’s hand, stands and starts pulling him toward the door. “Feed me Anthony.” Peter laughs.

Tony can deny that laugh and that name nothing.


	9. …And dinner

There’s much talk of science over dinner. Peter can’t quite meet him, but it’s clearly due only to the lack of formal education. No wonder the kid is so good at the game. How easily he slides in and out of it and knows when each is needed. He’s a fuckin’ genius. Peter takes work and he likes his boys easy. But Tony’s never had the possibility of someone who can keep up with him. Never wanted it. He wants it now. Wanting makes you sloppy.

“How…” Peter hesitates. “I mean… After MIT… I’m sorry.”

Tony shrugs. “Family business. Howard died. Turns out I have a talent for it.”

“In other words, Anthony,” Peter says, “shit happens.”

“It’s certainly an applicable turn of phrase.”

“Yeah. After my uncle died, my aunt couldn’t deal. And I couldn’t deal with her not dealing. I managed to save up enough for an apartment and start college, but with the jobs and the commute? One semester in, the jobs won.”

“But baby, I know you aren’t working now.”

“No. And I swear on my life that I never did _ that _ kind of work. My mother was a Fitzpatrick. My father’s was Parker, but that was changed through no fault of his own.”

Tony scoffs. “So was Stark. Fuckin’ Ellis Island. Slap everyone with an English name.”

“With family on both sides, I’m able to get by like you saw. Making connections, brokering meetings. Over here, people know that I take after my father. Siciliano. Four generations solidly back before my father had his head turned by an Irish girl. Still… that blood doesn’t thin. I kept my allegiances seem… fluid… to anyone on the other side.” Peter pursed his lips. “Fitzpatrick, especially my grandfather’s Fitzpatrick… Boston… It opens some doors.” 

Too much truth. He knows that truth is needed going forward but it leaves him feeling exposed. When you’re exposed you turn to… someone you shouldn't. Should or shouldn’t doesn’t matter, Peter desperately wants to touch Tony’s hand. But it’s one thing doing it in a bar, another entirely when in a place where families go. He rests his hand on the table instead, leaving the decision to Tony. The touch is brief, but it’s there. Shouldn’t again. Shouldn’t have felt so good. Shouldn’t have worked. This is so dangerous.

It seems they’re both up in their heads. And Peter turned to him to get him out of it. Oh that should not feel so good. “Dessert?” 

Peter slips off his shoe and runs his foot along the inside of Tony’s calf. “Other than you?” he whispers and smiles. 

And the turn is that fast. “Yes, other than me,” he teases back. “They don’t have cassata, wrong block.” Tony chuckles. “It’s funny how we still sort ourselves by what part of the boot our grandfathers or great grandfathers came from. But what can I say,” he adds with a shrug.

“So what do Campano eat for dessert?”

“There’s the usual Italian American tiramisu…” Peter looks unimpressed. Tony nods to the waiter. “_ Due baba _.”

When they’ve finished, Peter turns and heads for the door where he used to live. He takes two steps and laughs. “Habit.”

“New habit, doll.” Even though they’re in sight of the patrons in the restaurant through the window, outside is apparently a respectful enough distance for Tony. He settles his hand low on Peter’s back and guides him to his car.

“Do you speak it?” Tony asks.

“Italian?” Peter laughs. “Maybe if you talk slowly, I’d get one word in twenty. I remember my father speaking it. My aunt and uncle never spoke it. They wanted far away from my father’s life. So I never learned.”

“Gaeilge?”

“A very little. Mostly what’s in songs that I picked up just being around. It’s mostly gone now.” Peter’s actually impressed that Tony knows what the language is properly called and didn’t call it ‘Gaelic’. But then he referred to the Irish as Éireannach. He really has to stop being impressed by Tony. He really has to stop wanting him so much. He really is a lost fuckin’ cause. “I have just enough of it to make the other side think I’m on theirs.”

“Aren’t you a duplicitous little thing.”

Peter laughs. “Only when screwing over the Éireannach.” He turns serious. “I _ hated _ hearing people brag about my family’s connections in Boston. Who in their right mind would want to be part of that? There’s no loyalty, no _ history _. Weak,” he adds with heated contempt.

“_ Tesoro _.” Tony lays a hand on Peter’s knee. “I might just have to keep you.”

Peter traces invisible lines across the back of the man’s hand. “Anthony,” he curls his fingers around to hold it, “I hope you do.”


	10. With me

Peter sucks Tony off lying in bed. Nothing fancy, nothing tricky. But it leaves the man groaning out his name. Or at least his nickname. He used to think it was so childish before. But Tony says it the same way he says ‘baby’. Only it’s better because it’s specifically him and not just a generic endearment to use on whatever boy is in the man’s bed that night. 

Kissing isn’t really a thing with guys in this world. But kissing is definitely a thing with Tony. He holds him close while he kisses him. The man teases Peter’s lips, licks into his mouth, sucks on his tongue, pushes his in for the same in return, which Peter does enthusiastically. It leaves them both breathless, hungry for more. It makes Peter _ give _ to Tony’s _ take _. 

“Eager, Petey?” Tony’s laugh is low and quiet. He rolls the kid onto his side, facing away. Wrapping his arm under Peter, he pulls him back against his chest. The lube is easily had, unlike it had been in the boy’s room the night before. Tony doesn’t open Peter the same way. He’s learned a lot of ways not to hurt his boys. He slicks his cock heavily and ruts between the boy’s cheeks, transferring the lube that way. He squeezes another stripe onto his cock and pulls the boy’s leg up, opening him so that his hips’ movement slides him easily until the boy’s dripping with it. He drags his cock along the boy and frots into the crease. Peter doesn’t get desperate; he’s willing to let him take things at the opposite pace from last night but he can feel the boy wanting more.

Tony takes himself in hand and pulls back, rubbing the head of his cock against Peter’s opening. He lets it catch on the boy’s rim, pushing, as he rocks forward. Each time Peter opens a little more with Tony’s push. The kid’s tight so he takes his time. Once he doesn’t feel resistance, Tony moves the boy’s leg up higher. He slides back again, but instead of pushing, he parts Peter slowly, making the boy feel how wide he’s spreading him around his cock. 

Peter clutches Tony’s arm across his chest. It’s taking the man so long to enter. The stretch of it is so slow. Tony lets him crook his leg back over the man’s own. Peter’s not used to someone wanting it so slow. He starts to push back, but now that the man’s hand isn’t holding his leg up, he has a firm hold on his hip. He doesn’t let Peter rush it. Making him feel it. Making him ache for it. He’s panting, shallow and hard, letting out soft tiny moans. And Tony’s still not all the way in. Tony pulls him back and bites over the bruise he made the night before, Peter lets out a high whine like he’s never heard from himself before. When Tony fully seats himself inside, the whine breaks into a breathy, “Oh Anthony.” 

“_ Caro _ ,” Tony groans against Peter’s back. He pulls the leg the boy’s thrown over him up higher. He slides across Peter’s lower leg and pushes it back, spreading the boy open even though they’re both still on their sides. He gives it a moment for the position to settle before he begins to move his hips. His thrusts are short but deep. He takes his hand off Peter’s hip long enough to put the boy’s hand on his own cock. “Slowly, _ tesoro _. As I move.” He puts his hand back on Peter’s hip and tightens his hold around the boy’s chest.

Tony’s hips rock, pushing him into Peter gently, keeping him stretched so wide, filling him so deeply that Peter’s close to blasphemy. He makes a fist of his hand and doesn’t so much jerk himself off as lets Tony make his cock an extension of the man’s own. Peter’s never felt so _ surrounded _ by anyone. The breadth of Tony’s chest along his back. The band of his arm underneath and across him… he can feel the man’s muscles tense to keep the slow pace. Tony’s other hand is on his hip, but then he slides it down until he’s pressing low over Peter’s stomach, just above his cock. Tony thrusts a bit harder and Peter can _ feel _ the man moving inside him.

“As before,” Tony breathes against Peter’s back. “With me.” His thrusts become a bit faster, a bit harder, but still no more than a bucking of his hips. When he’s in his deepest, he feels his cock pressing up against his palm as it’s held low, from inside the boy. It’s natural for the boy to want more and he tries but Tony sets it right. “Ah _ caro _. Shh. Let me move you. Hold your hand still around you.”

If Tony wasn’t pulling his hips far back, increasing the length of his stroke if not the speed, before pressing in again it would almost be too slow. Peter’s breath catches over and over, shallowly panting in rhythm to how Tony’s moving them together. It’s languid and takes him by surprise when he starts to come. He throbs beneath his hand and, oversensitive, lets go of himself. His hand is replaced by Tony’s but the man is careful to keep the touch light. 

When Peter’s softened completely, Tony puts his hand back low over the boy’s stomach. It’s a sinful feeling as his cock pushes the kid’s stomach out against his palm knowing that he’s reshaping the boy to fit him. Tony feels himself getting closer and he finally allows himself the faster pace he’s been denying. He presses his face against Peter’s back, panting hard, open-mouthed against the boy’s skin, gasping, holding the breath in, releasing it in a long deep moan as he comes inside the boy.

“Anthony.” Peter’s not even sure he said it, he breathes it so gently.

But it’s answered, even though Tony knows it’s far too soon, the words whispered against Peter’s back. “_ Cuore mio _.”

Neither is willing to move, unworried about the state of the bed. Tony pulls the covers over them both and though it’s only been two nights, they fall asleep with the same thought: I’m in over my head.


	11. Tony’s boy

The morning reminds them both of why it is a bad idea to fall asleep messy. Peter laughs. “Please tell me there’s a laundry in your building and I don’t have to parade our sheets of shame to the laundromat and mortify the nonnas.”

Tony smiles at Peter’s description as he rolls out of bed. “In the basement. Quarters in the kitchen drawer.”

“Thank the heavens!”

One day and they have a routine? Perhaps they do, it feels so easy. Tony showers, Peter doesn’t flush and freeze him out in the middle of it. While Peter takes his shower, Tony’s able to run the water in the lavatory enough to shave and shape his beard without freezing Peter. Both out of the shower, the toilet’s finally taken care of. Peter’s own beard growth is sparse and pale, but he shaves what there is because he is a pretty boy and pretty boys do not have even the hint of a beard. While Peter is taking care of that, he smells coffee brewing, the grocery shopping having something to do with that. He thinks he shouldn’t feel so satisfied knowing that he’s taking care of Tony.

“You bought coffee,” Tony says appreciatively. “I work late so often that the store’s usually closed. I hate being stuck with the shit from the place up the block.”

“Is it the right kind?” 

“Close. This isn’t bad, but Illy. You have to ask Gino for it specially. He hides it behind the counter when he’s running low. Which is usually. He hides himself too if he thinks he can get away with it,” Tony adds chuckling. “But if you hear the horses, Formula 1, or football, that’s where you’ll find him. Don’t buy Illy from an American place. It’s not the same no matter how much they tell you it is. And don’t mistake football for American football. Do that to Gino at your peril.”

Peter quirks his lips into a smile. “The old guys… set in their ways.”

“Mmm,” Tony agrees. “But you have to go across town to get  _ proper  _ imported Illy.”

“Mention your name again?”

“No! Mention my name to that old coot and he’ll be out of coffee even if you notice two dozen cans of it on the shelf.”

“Oh?” Peter arches an eyebrow in curiosity.

Tony downs his cup and makes a dash for the door. “Story for another day.” Peter laughs and suddenly Tony realizes he forgot to kiss that laugh off the boy’s lips. He does, but still darts for the door before Peter asks him to tell any embarrassing tales.

Peter heads across the street for Gattuso’s. He hears football, on delay from somewhere. Sure enough there’s an old man sitting in the corner watching an almost equally old TV, hiding out behind a rack of cheap American pastries. Peter doubts if there’s a date on the dusty things closer than ten years ago.

“Hi. Mister Gino?”

The man snorts but doesn’t look away from the screen.

“My boyfriend says to ask you for some Illy?”

That gets his attention. The man pushes his glasses down and looks at Peter over them. He laughs. “You’re Tony’s boy.” 

“He told me not to tell you it’s for him, you won’t give it to me.”

“I won’t give it to _ him _ . You? You look so sweet that bitter man won’t need to put sugar in his coffee.”

“Bitter?” Peter asks, surprised at the description.

“You wanting me to tell tales on him?” Gino shrugs. “Eh. Not so bitter anymore. Just took him a few years. I don’t let him forget. Doesn’t need a bigger head than he has.”

Peter laughs, high and bright.

Gino looks at him over his glasses again. “ _ Madonn’ _ You’re gonna own that boy.”

Peter looks down and smiles turning just the corners of his lips up, but his eyes sparkle.

“There’s no hope for him.” Gino shakes his head as he walks to the front of the store and hands Peter two cans. “He’s gonna need two with you.” He tries to ring up the sale, fumbles around the many keys of a modern register, letting go a string of curses in Italian that make the ladies shopping turn their heads. “Gina! Come work this damn thing!” He returns to the back corner and his TV.

Peter wonders why Gino seems so accepting of his and Tony’s relationship. He knows when he sees the very butch lesbian come to ring the coffee up. Peter smiles. 

“He’s not as scary as he thinks he is,” Gina says, loud enough that the old man can hear her across the store and over the TV. Peter gets the once over from her. “I heard Tony had a new boy.” She laughs at Peter’s surprise. “Like the old ladies have anything to do  _ but _ gossip. And by that I mean the old men.”

“Does anyone  _ not _ know?”

Gina shrugs. “Only those who are pretending that Tony Stark has any interest in his wife now that she’s had the one required kid.”

Peter pays for the coffee and leans his elbows on the counter conspiratorily. “Has he had many girlfriends?”

“A lot. Not for ages though. He used to tear through them before he gave up trying to impress people.” She pats Peter’s arm. “Watch out for the boys though. You don’t keep him happy, and he…,” she shrugs again, “wanders. Fast.”

“Don’t they all?”

“Wouldn’t know. We don’t have that sort of problem. My girl and me been together eight years.”

Peter hesitates, not sure if he should ask someone so new an acquaintance. “How does this work here.”

“Eh. Some of the girls are boys and some of the boys are girls. Not very enlightened.”

“I’m not sure I  _ like _ enlightened.”

“Then you’ll be okay. Besides, nobody, and I mean  _ nobody _ , top of the top to the lowest of the low, is going to touch what belongs to Tony Stark.”

“Oh,” Peter says, a bit intimidated.

“Serious weight. Enough that no one dares call him certain words anywhere within his earshot. And his earshot reaches a long way. They may  _ think _ it, but say it? Nah, you’re safe.”

“I’m Peter, by the way.”

“Nice to meetcha, Peter.”

“I gotta go. Laundry.”

She shoos him out the door.


	12. Serious weight

Peter strips the bed, gathers Tony’s dirty laundry. The suits and dress shirts he leaves to take to the cleaner when he run errands in the afternoon. Downstairs he chuckles to himself. What is it with old TVs in this neighborhood? And equally old people, this time a woman, watching them? His wash gets done quickly enough, but there’s a wait on the dryer. Peter sits absolutely still, staring at a spot on the wall. He’s reading, but the words aren’t there.

He knows all there is to know about Tony. Peter knew the file before walking into that bar. Before he used the arrangement of the meeting between the underboss and Rogers as an in. Two birds, one stone. Shrug. 

Father, Howard, was famous. Cutthroat, brilliant. Made before he was twenty five. Married to the same woman and, if you believed the gossip, never strayed. Only one kid. Unusual for a traditional family. Gossip said she wasn’t able to have more. He was known to be a drinker, but never a drunk. At least not when it came to business. There was talk of him being groomed for one position after another, possibly as high as one could go. 

Peter pretended yesterday, but he was well aware of Tony’s degrees from MIT. If the man had been born into another family… but he wasn’t. Tony was out of MIT barely a year before, as Peter has been saying, shit happened. New blood from Ukraine, back when they had all just stopped being Commies, was behind the hit. What made all the guys go nuts, is that the hitter took out Tony’s mom as well. Wives and kids are off limits in this world. Tony taught the Ukrainians the lesson. Hard.

He was relentless until he’d taken out the entire Ukranian mob this side of the river, making it so they  _ still  _ don’t peek their noses up anywhere near. He made his first move at twenty one. After two years, there was nothing but the mopping up to do. That would’ve gotten anyone made. Was going to. There were just formalities. But at twenty four, Tony got caught with his dick up an underboss’ son’s ass. It nearly cost him his life. He survived, but just barely. To quiet the scandal, Tony married quickly. But the marriage was childless for too long. There were whispers that the wife couldn’t conceive. Then later, that she was too old to. But mostly the whispers were the truth: Tony didn’t sleep with her enough for her to get pregnant. 

The whispers turned into rumors turned into complaints that maybe Tony should’ve paid more for having been caught with that underboss’ son. Tony the playboy was his answer. He took his girls out loudly. They never left without a story about how good Tony was in bed. They never lasted longer than they absolutely had to but there were a lot of them. It was a few years before Tony began taking boys again. They were kept around for even less time than the girls were. Tony was rough and took out the hatred of his situation on them, sometimes physically. The Tony Stark Peter has been going to bed with hadn’t yet been born.

Laundry in the dryer, Peter goes upstairs to wait the hour and a half for it to finish. 

What birthed the Tony Peter knows was a shotgun blast to the chest ten years ago. He’d put together an impeccable crew during the Ukrainian business. Loyal, talented, ruthless, and most of all smart. Without that, Tony would’ve died. They knew where he needed to go and how to get him there alive. The doctor might’ve been disgraced and without a medical license, but he’d once been the best cardiothoracic surgeon in the state. Without the people Tony had been bright enough to surround himself with, a second hit would’ve taken him out for good. But they protected him while he was recovering. Afterwards, Tony discovered that one of Howard’s old crew had ordered him killed. Like before, Tony didn’t just eliminate the one man directly responsible. Every former member of Howard’s crew went the way of the Ukrainians. Howard Stark’s name isn’t on anyone’s lips anymore. The only Stark there is Tony Stark.

A more skilled hitman hasn’t been seen since before Tony was born. Most are crude, with only enough skill to get the job done, counting on people’s fear to keep them quiet. That fear doesn’t apply much anymore. Guys roll over to save themselves a five year stint in a country club. Skill is appreciated and respected by those high up, even if they can’t publicly acknowledge Tony like they should. There are higher ups who would like to promote Tony. If only he’d go back to the way he was before ten years ago. Hiding his boys away, screwing women, putting babies into his wife. 

Tony doesn’t give a shit about appearances anymore. A different man emerged from the attempt on his life. He lives on his own terms. Not made? Who gives a shit. No one dares take him out, even without that protection. Just looking at the file, it’s foolhardiness. Tony takes too many risks. He’s too blatant. He’s egotistical. He’s living on borrowed time so he’s stopped caring. Those are the things that the file tells Peter.

The file on Tony  _ is  _ complete. What was missing was  _ depth _ of knowledge not  _ breadth _ . Peter’s blind spot. With depth, he knows that the flaws that he read about in the file aren’t Tony’s flaws. They’re his strengths. 

There are gay guys in Tony’s world — quiet, ashamed, discreet. The number who dare walk openly with a boy on his arm? To sit there with a boy and stare down one of the old guard and make  _ him _ blink? One.

There are guys in Tony’s world who’ve gone to college. The number who finished high school at fifteen, got a degree in engineering at seventeen, a masters in same and tacks on a second masters in physics just for fun, by the time he’s twenty? One.

Which is not to say there isn’t a flaw big enough to get Tony, and anyone close enough when the implosion happens, killed.

When that  _ one  _ is bored? Certain people are right to worry.

It takes Peter a moment to register that there’s a knock on the door. He has to blink away what he’s reading and focus.

“This is Mister Stark’s laundry, isn’t it?” A nervous middle aged woman holds the basket Peter took downstairs against her hip.

“Oh! The time totally got away from me,” Peter says apologetically, taking the basket from her. “I’m sorry. Thank you.” The laundry is neatly folded.

“That’s okay. It was no trouble.” She begs off and heads down the stairs.

Of course it’s no trouble. Not out of flirtation, either. People do things for Tony. Other than the bosses, a name alone doesn’t carry much weight anymore. Tony Stark?  _ Serious  _ weight, like Gina said.

Peter is trying very hard not to be impressed by what adding depth is showing him. It isn’t working. Being Tony’s arm candy is intoxicating enough. What happens in their bed makes Peter question his very existence. The rest?  _ So _ in over his head.

Still, there’s an errand to be run as well as dropping off that dry cleaning. Both are quickly done. Peter sits on the sofa and runs over things other than Tony’s problem in his head. He’s constantly adding to that breadth, refreshing the data, planning contingencies, names, dates, places, connections. He never over-studies any one singular problem. There comes a point of diminishing returns. 

He scoffs. How could he not see it? Of course Tony has no written papers, no notes. Does Peter?


	13. A pattern on skin

Tony’s late coming home. Peter’s reading one of his old textbooks he found in the half bedroom. He scrapes his hand over his face, exhausted, until he sees what Peter’s reading and brightens. “Oh good. I meant to tell you where they were.”

“I gave the place a bit of a clean. Hope you don’t mind. Did you eat?”

“Petey, I’m dead tired.”

“Yes Anthony, but did you eat? I’ve got some stir fry that only needs a quick warm. Won’t take five minutes.”

“You haven’t been waiting for me have you? Baby, don’t do that. I never know what time I’ll be coming in. I don’t want you starving yourself for me.”

Peter’s up off the sofa and heading into the kitchen. “I ate a couple hours ago. I made something that would be easy to heat and still taste good after. It’s no bother.”

Tony sits at the breakfast bar and watches as Peter warms up the food. Not microwave warms, but actually puts on the stove warms. His wife doesn’t even do that on the day or two per month that he actually gets home to her. In literally the five minutes Peter said it would take, there’s a plate in front of him and a glass of chilled water poured from a dark green bottle.

Peter leans on the counter. He reaches down under the overhang and comes up holding a can of Illy in each hand, grinning. “I don’t know what you meant, Anthony. Gino’s a sweet old man.”

“No,” Tony says, eyes wide in disbelief. “How…”

He laughs. “I have my ways.”

“Do I have to be jealous of Gino now?”

Peter comes around the bar from the kitchen and gives Tony a kiss on his neck. “Finish eating. I got so involved in that book, I forgot to put the laundry away.” He heads down the hall to do the forgotten chore. Peter can see lights being turned off in the apartment, the darkness creeping closer to the bedroom. He hears the bathroom being used and he’s in bed before Tony hits the door. “You’re not the only tired one. Physics on that level is  _ so  _ beyond what I learned in AP classes.”

Tony rolls on his side and nestles Peter in facing him. He absently threads his fingers through the boy’s hair. “I’ll show you when we wake up which books to start with.”

Peter’s own fingers are doing a lazy dance. Tangling through the light dusting of hair Tony has down the center of his chest. They trace in an invisible pattern over Tony’s warm skin, this time not avoiding yet not seeking out, the pockmarked scars there. And Peter definitely doesn’t notice the imperceptible hitch in Tony’s breath. His fingers dance slower, lazier, to stop at last as his arm curls up between them and he settles in for sleep. “G’night Anthony.”

“G’night,  _ tesoro _ .”

Though he’s evened his slow breaths, Peter doesn’t fall asleep immediately. He listens to Tony breathing. Watches the slow rise and fall of his chest. Peter can’t see the scars on the man’s chest as flaws. They changed Tony. If it hadn’t happened? If Tony was still the man he was in Peter’s file? He would’ve made a very different decision. 

The stillness and a day spent in too much in his head makes him tired. But it’s being in Tony’s arms that makes him relax. It shouldn’t feel this good to sleep, only to sleep, with this man, he thinks as his eyes close.

The morning is slower. No alarm went off. Peter stretches lazily. “No work today?” he asks, looking up to notice that Tony’s been lying there watching him sleep.

“Tonight. I won’t be back until morning.

Peter hums. “We can have breakfast together. Ooh! It’ll be Saturday. Cheat day. Can you bring home some pastries for breakfast?”

Tony laughs. “Yes I can bring home some pastries for breakfast,” He teases, imitating the lilting cadence of Peter’s speech. “But then, I’ll need some sleep. I’ll leave you some money. Go shopping. You know what you’re going to need.”

“Yes Anthony.”

“Petey, you’re like a three day binge.”

Peter pouts. “Over me so soon?”

“Not what I meant. Three days and I’m hooked on you.”

Peter smiles underneath his lashes. “Gino did warn me.”

It earns him a quirk of Tony’s eyebrows. “Oh really?”

“Three days and I’d be in way over my head.”

“That old coot hasn’t had a nice thing to say about me since I came back from MIT.”

“Who says that’s a  _ nice _ thing to say.” Peter grins as he heads to the bathroom.

“Don’t be a brat or I won’t bring home pastries.”

“Anthony!”

“You wait to shower til later. I haven’t gotten you messy yet,” Tony teases as he steps behind the curtain.


	14. Work the problem

Peter knows how long it takes Tony to finish in the bathroom. It was risky bringing the thing into the apartment yesterday when he ran his errands, but if he leans almost against the glass of the bedroom window just right, his back to the door, so he can hold it in his left hand and not cover the internal antenna, he can just about manage to get one bar. When the call connects, he listens. He wants to double check the name. “Anthony…” He can’t finish the name before he feels a gun press behind his ear. 

“That shouldn’t work here.”

“Oh I know!” Peter said brightly. “I’ve been trying for days.”

The slide on the gun is pulled back. “Anthony who?” Tony’s voice is cold.

“Not you,” Peter says seriously.

Tony takes the burner phone, breaks it and slides the battery out, all left handed. His gun never leaves Peter’s head. 

“Who else if not me?”

If Tony’s body were even a little bit further away instead of pressing him into the window. Just a tiny bit of leverage that he doesn’t have. Peter closes his eyes and sighs. There’s no way to turn this around. 

“I was waiting on confirmation of a name I already knew. You were going to get me close to him tomorrow night.”

“Close to who?”

“Anthony Antonelli.”

“Who wants him out, Campano, Siciliano, or Éireannach?”

“Campano.”

“That makes no sense. It’s in his own house. Lie better.”

“I’m doing this for you.”

“How.”

“The person I’m doing the work for wants to move you up. He didn’t know for certain but he knows now. Antonelli’s is the voice keeping that from happening.”

“How did getting close to me help?”

“I’m gay, you’re gay. It was an in. You’re blatant enough to take me to ‘girlfriend night’. Antonelli will be there with Cecilia.”

“You’ll be dead before you get halfway across the room to him. You’re sloppy.”

“Today? Yeah. The call had to be between ten and eleven. I thought you’d be at work by now.”

“Like I said, sloppy.”

“You keep a regular schedule. More so than most guys.”

“Not regular enough.” Tony tsks. “I hate sloppy work.”

“There is no way he’ll be walking out of that club tomorrow night.”

“How.”

“Something beneath you.”

“Ah. No, baby. Do you forget that I know you’re a boy? Boys, even boys like you, don’t use poison.”

“It’s safe because… I’m _ sloppy, _” Peter imitates Tony’s accusation. It takes Tony a beat to figure it out. Peter can’t fault him that.

“You knew I’d catch you.”

Peter’s corners lips quirk into a tiny smile. “Someone who lives in a Faraday cage? Yeah. I knew you’d catch me.”

“So is it Antonelli? Or is it a different Anthony you were sent to trap.”

“Things change. Decisions are fluid. I don’t make them.”

“You just make them happen. Did you know I’d be a possibility?”

Peter tries to shake his head. The gun moves with him. “A possibility? Maybe. Likely? No. I know who hired me even if he thinks I don’t.”

“Who?”

“Who put a shotgun shell into your chest ten years ago?”

“He’s dead. His friends are dead.”

“Um hmm. Work the problem, Anthony.”

Tony pauses. “Shit.”

“Got it in one.”

“Are you kidding me? He wants me up?”

“He was fine with down. Depended on me, actually.”

“Gianni _hated _ Howard.”

“Of _ course _ he hated Howard. It was nice of you to get rid of _ all _of Howard’s old crew for him and not just Stane. You have a reputation for being thorough.”

“What made you give me thumbs up instead of down in this arena? Better yet, what made him willing to give you the decision?”

“He’s tired of you screwing around. He couldn’t give two shits that it’s with boys. He gives a shit as to how vulnerable the number and lack of discernment makes you.”

“And the decision?”

“What do you think, Anthony.”

“I could get rid of you tomorrow. I could get rid of you _ right now _.” Tony presses the gun harder against Peter’s head. Right behind the ear. Where there’s that one curl refuses to be tamed, even when the boy puts product in his hair.

“That, Anthony.”

“What?”

“The way that you pushed the gun closer but still haven’t moved your finger off of the guard. But mostly? That hitch in your breath. That one, right there, the one you don’t think you make.”

“Fuck.” Tony pauses. Moves his finger onto the trigger. ”And once you’ve done Antonelli?”

“Anthony, please.” Peter scoffs at the finger movement. “After Antonelli’s lying dead in the bathroom — old guy can’t hold his water — I’ll return to your table, smile sweetly, sit down for maybe two? three? minutes… these things are fluid… decisions made on the ground… before I _ make _you ready to take me home.”

“And if your decision went the other way?”

“Never would’ve.”

“If it had? Before that first night?”

“You would’ve never made it to the second.”

“When did you decide?”

“When Rogers walked into the room.”

“How?” Tony sounds genuinely puzzled.

“Because everyone in the room showed their hand. Checked their weapon. Everyone but you. I know you don’t know Rogers. And I made damn certain that you never have and never would work with an Éireannach.”

“Not enough.”

“I’d heard you were open. Heard you were blatant. Heard you didn’t give a damn. A lot of guys pretend at not caring. You don’t. That second guy with me? You know who he is?”

“Not certain. Have my suspicions. Not from this area.”

“From mine. Siciliano. Please stop pretending that I’m stupid, Anthony. You clocked him the minute he walked up to the door. Before he opened it. You know who he is.”

“And?”

“You came up to me, bought me a drink. You flirted _ heavily _ with me in front of him when you know Siciliano like our kind even less than Campano do. You didn’t give a shit, even knowing that. You know that your name, while it carries weight everywhere, it carries enough less four blocks down and two over for it to have been a risk for you. Especially for someone not made. They still care about that shit over there.”

The gun isn’t lowered, but the finger isn’t on the trigger or the guard, it’s on the grip.

“The decision was made before we walked out that door,” Peter says. “Everything after is real.”

“How can I trust you?”

“Have I _ ever _ lied to you Anthony?”

Tony lowers the gun. “No.”

“Do you think I know a little bit more than one word in twenty of Italian?”

“Mmm.”

“Do you not think you’re my heart too? Already?”

“Huh.” 

“Can I turn around yet Anthony? I’d kinda really like it if you kissed me right about now.”

Tony pulls Peter in for a deep toe-curling kiss.

“You need any help with the work, _ tesoro _?”

“Maybe we can leave after you finish your drink, quickly but not too quickly. But definitely before three minutes? Not that I can’t wait,” Peter says with a shrug. “But the longer the riskier same as the shorter the riskier too.”

Tony smiles against Peter’s lips. “Just enough heat in that drink to make it look like I can’t wait to get you home and fuck you blind.”

“Exactly.”

“What makes you think I’m not gonna do just that?”

“After you’ll know what I just did? I’m counting on it.”

“Shit. How’d you get so good, Petey?”

“How’d you get so good Anthony?”

“A lot of practice, a bit of luck, and pure talent.”

“Same.”

“I’m older than you kid. More of all three.”

“When you were twenty one?”

“Shit.”

“Anthony, I’m only nineteen. Not nearly talented enough to do what you did. But it only took me one to handle the situation with my uncle. Took four to handle the one with my parents. Not the entire fucking Ukrainian mob,” Peter says, laughing high and bright. “Giving myself credit though, one of the four was a high level operative with the CIA.”

“Antonelli, huh?”

“Gianni could give a shit. Those with him?” Peter shrugs. “Gianni’s word carries.”

“The number and the discernment?”

“Mmm hmm.”

“That’s not going to be a problem anymore, _ cuore mio _.”

**Author's Note:**

> If this is any good, additional parts might be coming. I've got an idea or two but am open to suggestions.
> 
> * * *
> 
> I've had to make changes in backstory and the way that certain defining character traits present themselves in order to make Tony and Peter fit into this world as opposed to the superhero one.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Yes, this is probably set in New York. Did I do research into the location? Hell no. Street names, rivers, whatever... that's all a great big ol' ~handwave~
> 
> * * *
> 
> All I can say in my defense is that in my life I've watched a lot of Noir, read a lot of Chandler, and I adore Lauren Bacall
> 
> * * *
> 
> Translations
> 
> Campano - someone from Campania  
Siciliano - someone from Sicily  
Éireannach - someone from Ireland, Irish  
Gaeilge - the Irish language
> 
> Tesoro - dear, treasure (lit.)  
Caro - dear  
cuore mio - my heart
> 
> * * *
> 
> My Starker blog on tumblr is [starker-stories](https://starker-stories.tumblr.com/).  
Come on by and visit.


End file.
